


empty no more

by awkwardacity



Series: long may he reign [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Episode 26 spoilers, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memory Loss, canon??? I don't know her, listen i wrote this in a grief-induced fugue don't judge, this got 1k longer than expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:56:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardacity/pseuds/awkwardacity
Summary: He is born on a snow-covered hillside.





	empty no more

**Author's Note:**

> of course my first work in this fandom is _this_.  
>  this is unbeta-ed, written at 4am in a grief-induced fugue, so it ain't great. but i needed to get out some *feelings* and this seemed the healthiest way

His eyes do not open - yet somehow, he knows they were never closed.

Still, the first thing he is greeted with is darkness. His eyes flicker around, searching for something, anything; his vision is empty.

The thought snags in his head: _empty_. Circles him, engulfs him, repeating like a mantra. He can't quite figure out what the word means.

There's a weight pressing on his lungs, pinning his arms to is sides. _Arms_ , he thinks suddenly - _and legs_. Fingers, toes. His body buzzes with feeling, and he moves it piece by piece, these words bursting unbidden into his mind. He assumes they must belong to those parts, but he can't be sure.

Everything still feels hollow, empty.

There's a strange ache in his chest, so instinctively he opens his mouth-

His first breath is filled with earth. The smell is damp and cloying, a strange sweetness in the air - and a lack of _something_ which brings the spasm of his lungs up short. He tries again to the same result; panic flickers in his stomach.

Struggling desperately against the restraint, he's almost surprised when he feels his arms move, fighting instinctively against the thick, rough fabric enveloping his body. His fingers snag on an edge, and he pushes through it, fingers meeting a cold, strangely soft substance. It parts relatively easily against his efforts.

Before long, his hand breaks the surface, instantly chilling, fingers stinging with cold. Then his arm, shoulder, _head_. The freezing air is like needles in his lungs, but a hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat because it feels _so_ _good_.

The cold winter air hits him fully once he's crawled his way from his tomb, wind whipping past his cheeks with a biting sting, tugging at his hair and the loose sleeves of his shirt. The snow on the ground soaks through to his knees. He hugs his arms around himself instinctively, curling inwards to protect his body, and that's when he notices it.

There's a ragged hole in the once-white material, now soaked a vibrant brown-red. His fingers reach to touch the skin underneath involuntarily, and find nothing but smooth flesh. It feels wrong somehow, like he _knows_ the something which should be there, a memory tucked in the corner of his mind.

Yet all that surfaces is that one word again. _Empty_.

His hands are next to catch his attention. There's a strange disconnect upon seeing them: a deep lavender, nails ragged with dirt, skin raised and discoloured in places with a multitude of scars. He runs one over the other, feeling the sensitive patches of skin under his fingers with a hungry curiosity.

As he shifts, he hears the crackle of something from within his clothes. His fingers clutch around a piece of paper tucked inside his shirt. The edges are licked with scarlet, but the paper itself is thick and creamy, and the writing curling across it is a beautiful inky cursive.

He knows these scrawls mean something, but to him they are nothing more than pretty black smudges.

He tucks the paper back into his shirt, close to his heart, and finally, hugging his shivering frame with his arms, looks up at his surroundings

The landscape is blurred by a flurry of white flakes falling from a clouded grey sky. Through squinted eyes he can vaguely make out hills, a felled tree lying across an indent in the blanketed ground which must be a path. His body is already numb, yet each delicate fleck hits his skin like a needle. Painful, but he can't help but find awe in its beauty.

The ground around his feet is dirty, snow mixed with the earth he displaced only moments ago. The hole gapes like a yawning mouth, as if reaching up to swallow him back down; every instinct screams at him to get as far from it as possible.

He has moved only a few unsure, shaking steps when his eyes are drawn to a splash of colour. There's a tall staff sticking up from the ground, just above where his head once lay. Hung over it is a coat, fluttering in the wind. He reaches out for it reflexively, fingers curling into the brightly coloured material. Something in his chest aches possessively at the sight of it. In a sea of white, it is a vibrant flag of colour anchoring him, grounding him. It's soaked through, and with every shiver of wind more snow displaces from its folds.

Still, he knows it is meant for him. Shrugging it over his shoulders, there's a strange warmth, kindled in the pit of his stomach, as if this splash of life is shielding him from the cold. He clutches the fabric to himself.

With nothing else to do, no indication of life or break in the snow, he steps away from the grave from which he was born, and stumbles towards the road. He has no idea of where to go, or what awaits, but the hunger for _anything_ to fill himself, his head, his vision, other than this empty static drives him forth.

Towards _something_.

* * *

Time passes, and every step aches his feet a little more, but eventually he discovers that the world is not simply a vast expanse of white.

The light fades from the sky, plunging the landscape into a darkness which seems to leech what little warmth remains from the world. His body screams for rest, but his chest aches to be filled, pushes him forward relentlessly until he's numb to the pain. He simply pulls his coat closer to himself and continues.

Just when his limbs begin to shake so hard his knees nearly give way, the path curves around a hill, and colour explodes in his vision. A wall of dark stone, a distant forest of huge, shadowed trees, towers yearning upwards towards the sky, each dusted in white.

In front of the gate are two figures, standing restlessly. He moves without thinking in their direction.

"Halt!" one shouts; the words are lost on him, but sound after so much silence is like an explosion against his ears. "What's your business in Shady Creek?"

He cocks his head to one side, trying to decipher the sounds being thrown irritably in his direction.

" _Empty_." The word falls unbidden from his mouth, a rasp which makes his throat ache. He tries it again, rolling the syllables on his tongue. His teeth and lips feel strange, his jaw pangs as he moves it. The two guards exchange looks.

"Look," the other one says, an exhaustion weighing his words, "do you have the toll or not?"

One grabs hold of his hand, gripping it painfully. Instinctively he tugs away, and one of the bands of metal looped around his fingers snags, dropping into the snow. The first guard picks it out of the snow, holding it up so it glints in the dying sunlight. "This should do."

With a kick, they shove him through the gate.

The city is a hive of activity, even in the blood-red of the setting sun. Carts crash across uneven cobblestones, tugged along by braying horses and grumbling people. Shouts drift up from alleys, the clatter of metal on metal and stone. He passes by all of it, head aching with the sudden overwhelming stimulus of sound. Every person he passes gives him a strange look, dark and menacing, or incredulous; he simply curls further in on himself.

His fingers are so cold the tips feel like fire, beginning to go an unhealthy dark shade of purple. _Warmth_ , he thinks suddenly, eyes drawn hungrily to the torches carried by a few passersby. He reaches out for one - the moment his fingers near the flames they sting in agony, and he quickly pulls away.

As he wanders further into the city, shouting breaks out behind him. Coming closer.

A hand lands on the back of his shoulder, pulling him roughly around to face the other direction. He's face to face with a towering woman, wearing vivid blue garments even thinner than his. Her face is drawn, yet flushed, as if she's been running.

"Molly?" she says, her voice heavy with something he can't identify.

He responds the only way he knows how. " _Empty_."

A mix of horror and realisation dawn on her face, mouth falling open, and hope sparks in his chest. That word means something to her; _he_ means something to her.

"It's..." she stumbles over her words. "Uh, it's gonna be okay, Molly. You're safe. Alive. Oh god, you're _alive_."

Before he can do anything, she pulls him towards her and wraps her arms around him, squeezing as if he might suddenly vanish. Her grip hurts, but he can't find a reason to pull away. She's surprisingly warm despite her lack of clothes, her embrace even more effective against the cold than his coat.

"You goddamn asshole," she spits over his shoulder. Her cheek is wet against the top of his head. "You goddamn, reckless, self-sacrificing asshole. If you die again I swear to god I'll kill you."

She lets go of him, allowing him to breathe finally, though he finds himself reaching for her again. " _Empty_."

"Yeah, dude." She nods. "Let's fix that."

She grabs hold of his arm and tugs him back through the street on a deliberate path, and the warmth of her touch seems to quell that empty hunger inside him just a little.

* * *

Things come slowly to him; thoughts constructed steadily, word by word in his head, translated carefully into sounds formed upon his lips. The world shifts piece by piece into place.

His name is _Mollymauk_ , he learns, from the girl he met in the street - Beau. He rolls it on his tongue with delight, relishing its taste, his ownership in it. _Mine_ , he thinks immediately, and the word slips from his lips, tugging a smile from Beau.

There is a group of people waiting at the brothel she leads him to - a dirty, ragged man with the most beautiful accent, a small green girl with sharp teeth and wide eyes, an armoured woman who can barely meet his gaze. She keeps her distance, somewhat, but the others are all over him, pulling him into similarly desperate hugs like they've been drowning for years; touching his face and hands, furiously wiping away the tears slipping down their cheeks. So much at once, yet each touch chases away the cold, each word fills a part of that hollow in his chest.

There is so much more to learn, he knows distantly, but it will come.

When he falls asleep that night, finally, after days of aching search, he no longer feels empty. They pull soft blankets and pillows from the beds, piling them all onto the floor of the biggest room they have. He goes to sleep with Nott nestled fiercely against his legs, Keg hesitantly on the other side. Caleb and Beau lie on either side, wrapped around his arms and torso, a tangle of limbs, warm and safe.

He falls asleep surrounded by family, as Mollymauk Tealeaf once more.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang with/chat with/prompt me on tumblr [@edelwoodsouls](https://edelwoodsouls.tumblr.com), im always free to chat (or theorise... or cry...)


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